Wammy's Boy
by Kitsumi-Hime
Summary: The death of a grandfather is expected. Still, Q can't seem to shake off the sense of impending doom. And James? He's tagging along for a nice vacation to a seemingly nice orphanage, with slightly unpleasant children. No pairings at this time.
1. Chapter 1

I do not own Death Note, James Bond, nor any of their characters. I am making no money off this either, so please don't sue me.

This is unbetaed, so I apologize for any grammatical/spelling errors.

No pairings in the foreseeable future. As much as I love my slash, I don't think I can write any.

~x~x~x~x~

It was a bright, cheery, Wednesday morning, completely different from that of the typical London weather. Bond swaggers into Q-branch as always, with a slight rip in his Armani and a split lip. He heads with a single-minded determination towards his goal, the man obscured by screens upon screens of data. The centre of the storm that is the intelligence branch. The office of the Quartermaster. He never bothers knocking, and this time is no different.

"007," the brunet absently mutters, sitting with one hand typing while the other reaches for his mug. "Has old age finally caught up to you, or is loosing track of your equipment a commonality amongst you agents?"

"What makes you think I lost them?"

"Oh please, the only thing you never lose is that cheap radio of yours."

"Be as that may –" The excuse almost slips out of his mouth, when a ringtone startles them out of their banter. Q's eyes widens a fraction, unnoticeable to most, but Bond is much more observant, given his line of duty. He sees the minute signs of panic, apprehension, and dare he say it sadness?

"I thought phones aren't allowed at work?" Bond says, casually.

"It's a work phone." Q retorts, his right hand reaching into a bag. His left hand has still not paused in typing.

Bond sees the peculiar way Q holds the mobile device, with his thumb and index, as if it's contagious. He mentally files away the information as Q opens his mouth.

"Yes, Roger?" Q answers calmly. The voice on the other side is muffled, even with Bond's acute sense of hearing. One does not simply become a 00 agent of his calibre without listening skills, after all.

"Yes, I read the newspaper this morning. Heart attack from old age, quite normal." The calm delivery betrayed Q's flash of grief, shown through his eyes. Bond narrows his eyes. A death that is featured on a newspaper? Must've been a prominent death too, if it caught the attention of Q. He'll definitely research into this. The personal life of Q is none of his business, but if it affects his performance on field...

"No, I do not have the information. I don't particularly care what they do, not even when they ask me to design security programs." Another pause.

"Of course I could hack it, it's my own program! The data's completely lost though, because I designed it myself; had it been anybody else it might've left a trace, but not mine." Q responds venomously. Bond is almost surprised by the bitterness in Q's voice, intertwining with hints of pride.

"You know I can't, Roger. I have work. Yes, even on weekends. You should know."

How curious. As the Quatermaster of MI6 nobody, not even his spouse (if he had any) should know what or where he works.

Q sighs. "Of course. I should've figured. I assume M already knows?"

This "Roger" knows M and Q. Curious and curiouser.

"Good. I'll see you this Saturday then. Good bye, Roger." Q hangs up, shoves his phone back into the bag and returns to typing.

"Now as I was saying, Bond, please do not 'lose' any more equipment. They are the cumulative works of blood, sweat and tears, not to mention thousands of research dollars, and they deserve respect."

"Ah, so you do remember my humble existence," Bond deflects the comment.

"You may not realize it, but the world doesn't revolve around you. So if you bring back the equipment – and I do mean all of them – next time, then perhaps you won't find burrs in your luggage."

Bond was about to reply, when a knock catches their attention.

"Q, Bond," M enters, nodding to his two employees. "I'm sure you've heard of the unfortunate death of Quillish Wammy?"

"Yes, Roger just called," Q stops his typing and answers, at the same time when Bond says, "No I have not."

"Well I'm sure Q can fill you in on all the details, as you shall be going with Q to the funeral as his bodyguard."

Surprise flickered through Bond's eyes although his voice was a steady, "yes sir." Q, looking about to protest, was silenced by the hand in the air.

"Now I know you may object to this, but you know your importance. And you also know _their_ reputation, no?" M counters the un-spoken objection.

Q purses his lips. "Fine," he spits out, finally.

"Thank you for your understanding. Now the funeral is on Saturday so it leaves you three days to organize. I expect this department to work as a well-oiled machine even without its head, am I clear?"

"As clear as ophthalmic crystal, sir."

"Excellent. I'll see myself out then, gentlemen." M exits, leaving the two in silence.

"So... Quillish?"

* * *

AN: This is my first story in... what, 5 years? I really hope my writing has improved a lot by now, although I wouldn't know. Anyhow, I just can't believe NOBODY has seen this happening! Heck, everything even fits PERFECTLY. "In the novel, Q had designed a security system used in the Kira Investigation building that showed the name of anyone coming in" (Death Note wiki). He's the same age as L. And Quillish Wammy was a famous INVENTOR. **Q**uillish. I know Q is just short for quartermaster, but a girl can dream, right?


	2. Chapter 2

_**Inventor Quillish Wammy dies of Heart Attack, aged 70**_

"An inventor, I see. Quite like you, no?" Bond asks casually, flipping through the Guardian.

"I know what you're insinuating Bond, so stop digging behind my back and I'll tell you. It's not like keeping it a secret would help me much at any rate." Q says, with his back to Bond and both hands tinkering with some new object.

"His name seems very familiar, but I know I would remember a name so distinctive as Quillish. Who names their kid Quillish?"

"My great-grandparents, apparently." Bond's eyes snap towards Q. His Quartermaster has never revealed (and should never reveal) personal information before.

"Your -"

"Yes, my great-grandparents. Quillish is my grandfather, we're attending his funeral Saturday. Any more questions can wait until our drive up on Friday. We've got one hour, twenty-three minutes to waste, I'm sure your questions will be answered. Now get out of my work area so I can _work_!" Q turned around and _growled_ the last sentence out. Bond, not one to take orders, stood his place.

"I need to know what I'm getting into _before_ we leave so I can prepare. Why are we leaving on Friday? Was your grandfather involved in any crimes? Anything specific I should know of, possible problems in the family? You have to tell me, Q."

"I... fine." Q sighed, rubbing his temples. "We're leaving on Friday because I need to get some paperwork from Roger, the orphanage's current caretaker. Quillish was always very private, so there shouldn't be too many people. His family's dead, I'm the last one. What else..." Q looked away briefly. "Oh yeah, he founded an orphanage, Wammy's House?"

Bond startled. "Wammy's House, in Winchester?"

"That very one. I suppose you've heard of it then?" The quartermaster turned his attention back towards his gadget, hands fiddling once more.

"Heard of it! I was almost placed there after my parents died."

"You were eleven, weren't you? That's too old," the brunet muttered absentmindedly. Bond caught the sentence though, and knew something was up.

"Too old? I realize older orphans are less likely to be adopted but that's rather discriminatory, don't you think?" The blond knew he was onto something, when he saw Q's shoulder tensing.

"Wammy's House is special. It takes in young geniuses -10 and below- and moulds them into legends," Q turns his head slightly, judging Bond out of the corner of his eye. "Legends in the mental sense, that is. You're too physical for us."

"If they're such legends, why haven't I ever heard of any?" Bond questioned, eyes narrowing.

"We try not to associate ourselves to the House in public media. Our ways are peculiar and people don't tend to understand," Q tries to explain, working on his project again. "You've definitely heard of some of them though. Beyond Birthday?"

"The crazy serial killer in Los Angeles? You mean your orphanage produced _him_? Maybe I should bring a dozen firearms then," Bond exclaims, incredulously.

"And that's why we don't want to be associated with our other children. You probably know this guy too, L? Ever heard of him?"

"World's number one detective? Who hasn't heard of him is the question. You're saying that he was one of your alumni?" The blond raises an eyebrow.

"Of course. Come to think of it, you'll probably meet him in person too," Q remarks, adding a metallic ring onto his project.

"Why would such a busy person come to the orphanage's founder's funeral? He probably doesn't even know him," Bond claims.

"Because," Q turns around, "Quillish was his handler. He practically raised him. Now if you're done with the questioning, I need to finish my project and you are being distracting. Any more questions can be saved for the car ride, just pick me up at 4 on Friday." With that, the brunet physically pushes the taller one. Or tries to, at any rate.

"Q, you do realize that you are very unlikely to move me, right?" Bond questions, amused. Even more amusing is the blush forming on Q's face.

"Well, fine, can you please leave me to my work? I need to organize my department afterwards and I need time."

"Since you asked so nicely, I think I will. See you Friday, Q," Bond smirks.

Friday shall be interesting indeed.


End file.
